Cold Case Love
by Downlikeyourinternetconnection
Summary: Based on a glee-angst-meme prompt. Santana's facing 15 to life for manslaughter but protecting Brittany is her only concern. Lots of trigger warnings  more info inside . Brittany/Santana
1. Scene of the Crime

Title: Cold Case Love

Pairing(s): _Brittany/Santana_, Brittany/OC

Rating: M.

Warning: Trigger warnings, lots of them. Abuse (verbal and physical), murder, the works. Also, I know like nothing about the American legal system, so excuse my L&O-esque proceedings.

Spoilers: AU future fic but to be safe, it may use quite a bit of canon, so anything that has been aired is fair game.

Disclaimer: I don't own _Glee _or the characters of _Glee _or any likeness to the characters. Not making any money writing this and all that jazz!

Summary: Based on a prompt from the glee_angst_meme. See where browsing through old prompts gets me? AU future fic: Santana's facing 15 to life for manslaughter but protecting Brittany is her only concern. Lots of trigger warnings.

* * *

><p>Handcuffs bite roughly into Santana's wrists, marring thin skin like the smooth metal has somehow sprouted blunt knives. The flashes of light are almost blinding, coming one after another in a succession almost as quick as the pace with which she's being dragged through the burgeoning crowd. Questions are being hurled at her, voices melding into an indistinctive drone.<p>

She ignores them.

She ignores them just like she ignores the microphones being thrust into her personal space and the pointed lenses of subjective cameras accompanied by the incessant jumble of words that sound more like judgments than actual language.

She tries to concentrate on the red brick of the building before her, staring at it until it blurs, until the court house sign bleeds into the building and all she can see is red.

It's everywhere.

All over her.

It reminds her of the night that got her here.

/

_The house is silent. _

_It's eerie in a way Santana chooses not to think about because Brittany lives here—Brittany _lived _here—but seeing it for the first time, it's hard for Santana to imagine Brittany inhabiting any of this space. _

_It's too cold. _

_The tiles are a cloudy gray marble, too gritty for someone like Brittany who danced, barefoot, through their childhood, gliding across both linoleum and polished wood like the purpose of the floor was to assist her in her restless dance._

_It's weird thinking of Brittany living here. She can't conjure up images of Brittany against the backdrop of these pristine white walls, dancing against tile that would make her delicate feet blister. She can't imagine her, every morning, slipping on socks or slippers just to dance her way through her living room or her kitchen or her life. Even worse, she can't imagine Brittany not dancing at all in the same exact way that she can't imagine Brittany dancing _here_ and it makes her stomach churn because she knows one had to give and she's not sure which of the possibilities breaks her heart more._

_It boils down to one thing. _

_Brittany must have been miserable. _

_And that breaks her heart the most of all. _

_It's all Santana can think about as she climbs the wooden staircase, passing framed pictures of pretense, of smiles that never reached Brittany's eyes because she was fucking miserable. All along! All the phone calls when her voice would just subtly edge to desperation and she'd say that she was fine, that she was just catching a cold or she was just watching something sad, she was miserable. All the coffee dates, where she'd make excuses about why Santana couldn't take her home and she'd check the door ever so often and hold onto Santana's hugs like letting go would break her, she was so fucking miserable. _

_Santana should have seen it. There were so many fucking signs; she should have recognized the misery chipping away at that open heart that once held all of Ohio. She should have fucking realized something—done something—before tonight, before Brittany knocked on her door, eyes wild like a frightened cat and tears blazing tracks down cheeks scrubbed clean of make-up. _

_She should have asked when Brittany wore that turtle neck in the middle of a fucking sweltering New York summer; she should have commented when she saw the reemergence of leg warmers as sleeves. Instead, she was content to just soak up what little Brittany she was given; she was content to bask in it because she was so fucking selfish that she needed Brittany to be happy! For her own fucking sake, she needed Britt to have someone else's arms she felt safe wrapped up in; she needed Britt to light up like a lantern at the edge of someone else's words; it was the only way she could move on. Knowing that Brittany was somewhere happy—maybe not with her but with someone— was the only way she could sleep soundly at night so she took the smiles that Brittany offered and she listened to the stories she weaved and she completely overlooked how fucking obvious it was that she was breaking. _

_Because Brittany was fucking miserable. _

_Santana almost lost it when she opened her door earlier tonight only to find Brittany sobbing. _

_She almost threw up when she actually saw the bruises. _

_Everywhere. _

_They were everywhere. _

_Large hands wrapped brutally around such a delicate throat shone so startlingly clear in the light of her apartment that her head spun. Open palms, fists, Santana could see it all. Pinkish blotches from where he grabbed too tightly and held on too long, deep harsh purple from walls and the edges of furniture that Brittany stumbled or was pushed into, indents pierced into skin from blunt nails. _

_The whole fucking time, he was hurting Brittany! _

_Just an hour's drive away—right under her fucking nose—he was breaking her!_

_Santana's stomach tossed so violently and her blood pounded so viciously that even now, knowing that Brittany is safe at her apartment—knowing that once she grabs Lord Tubbington and some of Brittany's clothes, she's going to go back to her apartment and wrap the blonde up so tightly that no one will ever be able to hurt her again— she's still shaking. _

_Her fingers are trembling as she grabs long sleeved shirt after long sleeved shirt and stuffs them into a gym duffle bag. _

_She's gotta get out of here and quickly. _

_She feels like she's in the middle of a nightmare here except she knows that a nightmare as horrifying as this would have startled her from slumber the moment she opened her door to reveal a terrified, weeping Brittany. _

_Besides, it's not her nightmare. _

_It's Brittany's. _

_And it's no nightmare. _

_God, she's in the middle of Brittany's fucking reality. _

_Brittany had no respite from this; these white walls and this formal mahogany furniture were her cage and no matter how many times she blinked her eyes closed and then opened them again, this was her life. _

_This was the life Santana failed to protect her from. _

_God, she's so disgusted and angry and sad—she doesn't even know if she wants to punch something or puke or cry but when she hears the distinctive creaking of the front door opening, she's pretty sure she's gonna do all three. _

_Fuck!_

_He's not supposed to be back so soon. _

_Brittany said he's usually out until late supposedly giving her plenty of time to pick up Lord Tubbs and some clothes yet the telling thump of feet against hard granite says another thing completely. _

"_Brittany!" _

_Fuck, she seriously needs to get out of here quickly. _

_She slings the duffle bag over her shoulder, using both hands to pick up the fat Bengal cat who has been seemingly pleading with his eyes ever since she found him in the downstairs laundry room, exerting way too much effort clawing desperately at the closed door. _

_He's clearly going to make a quick getaway very difficult but she finds it hard to be mad at him when he looks even more pitiful than usual. _

"_Brittany!" The voice is louder, his anger penetrating through the walls and striking Santana head-on. _

"_Brittany! Where the fuck are you?" _

_Fuck, fuck, fuck! _

_There's a window! _

_There's a window and she's two stories up with a dumbbell of a cat in her arms and a heavy bag on her shoulder. _

_There's just no way! _

"_You useless bitch! You better be in this fucking house!"_

_But cats always land on their feet right? And there's nothing breakable in the duffle bag and she's got experience scaling walls from sneaking out so much in high school! _

_It's her only option. _

_She chances a glance out the window which is actually not as high up as she thought and the windowsill seems sturdy enough to manage even Tubbsters' weight at least while she finds a better way to get him down since leaving without him is not an option; Brittany may be getting reacquainted with Charity right now at her apartment but even though Brittany won't admit it, Lord T has always been her favorite and Santana has a feeling that leaving him here, or him breaking a couple legs on his decent will only make Brittany even more miserable. _

_Fuck, she can do this; where there's a will, there's a way, right? _

_Except when the window is bolted. _

_The motherfucking window is seriously bolted shut!_

_Santana likened the room to a cage before but now it really nauseates her how fucking right she was. _

"_Brittany!" _

_The voice is traveling now, getting closer and as much as Santana can't imagine Brittany filling this space; she can imagine this. She can imagine Brittany sitting so fucking miserable in this room, hearing the anger reverberate off of colorless walls and preparing herself for when he'll strike next. _

_She can imagine it; she can see his hands on her—all over it—and rage prickles through her veins, making her skin feel hot and clammy. _

"_I didn't give you any goddamn permission to go nowhere, Brittany!"_

_Her anger makes the decision to confront him before her brain even processes it. _

_She sets Lord Tubbs on the floor, ignoring the way his eyes bore into her—telling her to make smarter decisions— just like they used to back in high school when she'd slip out of the Pierces' household in the dead of night, still tugging random items of clothing on her body. _

_She's downstairs before the decision can even catch up with her but it slams into her when her eyes lock with icy gray. _

_The man before her pales. _

"_Oh, Santana," He catches himself quickly, drawing his spine straighter and curling his lips into a smile. Like this, he looks like the man Brittany first introduced her to, all smiles and carefree deposition. He looks like the man that she trusted to take care of her Britt-Britt and it really scares her how quickly he transformed from the man with so much hate in his voice that it shook her to this one. _

_She wonders if he changed that quickly on Brittany too. _

_She wonders if Britt-Britt even saw it coming. _

"_Brittany didn't tell me we were having a visitor," _

_He's too cheerful, too quick to assume Santana hadn't heard all of that disgusting abuse he spewed since he entered the house. _

"_If she had told me, maybe I would have gotten home earlier, made some dinner or something. You probably know as well as I do that Brittany and cooking don't get along,"_

_She wants to slap him. _

_She wants to slap him so fucking hard that he feels every single bit of pain he inflicted on Brittany. _

_He does not get to make jokes about her! _

_He does not get to just stand here and pretend like nothing has happened when Brittany is at her apartment covered in his abuse. _

"_Where is Brittany anyway?" He asks, all too casually for someone who keeps her locked in this fucking house with the windows fucking bolted. _

_Santana's fist comes down against the granite of the kitchen counter so hard she's sure it cracks—or her bone cracks, she's not so sure which but anger floods so thoroughly through her that she barely feels a thing. _

"_She's gone, Greg," _

"_What?" He asks, too careful not to break his façade even though Santana so desperately wants to break it for him. _

_Along with his face, she wants to break that too. _

"_Brittany's gone," she growls. "She's leaving you. And don't think for one second your apologizes or your sweet talk or even your threats are gonna bring her back," she's closer now; so close that she can see the destructive glint in his eyes. He doesn't even look contrite; he's destroyed her! He has destroyed her Britt-Britt and he's fucking happy about it. _

"_You're disgusting," She breathes and she doesn't think she's ever said anything truer in her whole life; he's disgusting; he's a scumbag; he never deserved Brittany and he doesn't deserve Santana wasting any of her time on him._

"_Now, I'm gonna leave with her stuff; in fact, I'll probably be back soon to get all of it and if you for a second even think of_ _trying to contact her, I swear to God, Greg," she's in his space, menacing with all her 5'5 frame can muster. "I'll make your life a living hell," _

_She tries to push past him, intent on getting the Tubbsmiser and leaving, but he steps in her way and for the first time— with his 6'3 frame hovering above her, his teeth gritted and the veins of his forearm straining beneath his skin from the force with which he's holding onto the counter to barricade her—she sees how much damage he could do. _

_She sees how easy those bruises could have formed; she sees exactly what could have happened if he pressed too hard—if punched, kicked, and grasped too hard—and she seethes. _

"_Get the fuck out of my way!" _

"_And what?" He leans so close that his breath runs cold against her skin and all Santana can imagine is Brittany—is Brittany trapped between him and a wall; Brittany terrified as his hands grasp for her; Brittany's reality! _

"_You think this is it, Santana?" He's mocking her, lips so close to her skin that it sends shivers down her spine in all the wrong ways. "You think she's gonna be with you now? Is that it? You come here, pack her stuff, give me a good "Lima Heights" telling off and you can have her?" His tone is dropping dangerously close to a threat. "Well, she's my wife so kindly tell my wife that she better be home by tomorrow morning,"_

_He eases up, leaving just enough space between him and the counter that Santana can slide by but she doesn't. He has lit a fire now; he's encased her in flames and she's not leaving until he burns too. _

"_And if she's not?" she challenges. "What are you gonna do? Hunt her down so you can slap her around some more, Greg?" His jaw clenches and Santana's well aware that she probably shouldn't be pissing off a guy who apparently takes pleasure in beating on women but all she can see in him right now is the guy that hurt Brittany—her Brittany—and her anger takes over where her common sense ends. _

"_Is that how you get your rocks off, Greg? Beating up women?" He growls, low in his throat, and within an instant, he's on her again, so close that she can practically smell the testosterone he's oozing. "You wanna hit me right now, too Greg?" she patronizes, watching the vein in his neck beat against his skin. Knowing Brittany, that's what she fixated on when he was this close; she fixated on the beating, on the rhythm—she fixated on what made him living, breathing, what made him human. _

_Santana doesn't see anything but a monster. _

"_Or do I need to be more defenseless for it to get you off?" she asks and that seems to be the last straw because when his hand comes down against the counter, she's sure it breaks this time and she laughs, right in his face because he's pathetic. So fucking pathetic picking fights with people he knows won't fight back. _

_She shakes her head. _

"_If I had known you were such a scumbag—" _

"_You would have what?" He asks, tone forceful. _

_She's honestly not sure what she would have done. Two years ago was such a long time ago that she can't even recall who she was then. The only thing she's sure about was that she was without Brittany; she was a Santana without Brittany and that's never a good Santana. _

"_What would you have done, Santana?" He asks again, mocking because they both know the answer._

"_Nothing! You would have done nothing!" _

_He's right. _

_She would have done nothing because the Santana two years ago was a Santana still trying to navigate a friendship with a Brittany that wasn't hers. She was trying to navigate the seas of their friendship without sailing to heartbreak so she let go of the steering and drifted to despair instead. _

"_You wouldn't have done shit except pined over how much you couldn't have her! Is that why you didn't come to our wedding, Santana? Too pissed that you couldn't have her anymore?"_

_She clenches her fist at her side and she's positive that the counter is safe this time because she wants nothing more than to connect her fist with his face. _

"_Do you know how broken she was that her best friend in the whole in entire world was too" busy" to come to her wedding? Hmm? Do you know that she cried, Santana? Because of you," He's laughing now, honest to God amused and Santana is so closed to just driving her knuckles so far into his face that she sees bone. "It's a shame you missed our vows! Good thing I remember them though. You know, "in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, as long as we both shall live; till death do us part," He recites, breath ghosting across Santana. "That's my favorite part, you know, "till death do us part." Do you know what that means, Santana?" _

_She desperately wants to push him away from her but he has her trapped, strong thighs digging into her hips, keeping her pressed against the counter. _

_She doesn't answer him. _

"_It means that the only way you're getting her again, Santana, is in a body bag," His words weight against her chest, trapping her in place even more than his body is. "I don't want that," he holds her cheeks between his palms, forcing her to look at him, forcing her to feel him, forcing all these images of him hurting Brittany into her brain—forcing all these images of him killing Brittany into her brain. _

"_I don't want to have to do that, Santana. I really don't! So why don't you be a good little girl and bring her back to me, ok? For her sake,"_

_She doesn't know how she musters the strength to push him stumbling backwards but it probably comes from the same place that allows her to stretch for the stainless steel knife poking out of its storage block. _

_The steel handle is cool against her clammy palm and she grips it harder, feeling her pulse pound through it. _

_He seems unaware of her sudden advantage because he stalks closer, his anger burning through his eyes. _

"_Did I piss you off?" He murmurs, both hands resting on the counter behind her, enveloping her in his fury. "Too much to take, is it? It just fucking kills you that she bound herself to me and not you," He presses even closer and Santana's head spins because he really is getting off on this, she can feel it against her and it makes her dizzy with the rage that soars through her. "It fucking kills you that she's mine. That I can do whatever I—" _

_His cry of pain cuts him short as the knife penetrates his thigh. He stumbles backwards and Santana tugs at the handle, pulling the blade from skin. _

"_Fucking bitch," he howls, face pale as he presses his hand against the wound. _

_The knife goes through his hand next, the sickening sound of skin tearing slicing through the room as she digs the knife deeper. _

_Into his hand. _

_His hand that has been all over Brittany. That has pressed and tugged and slapped and punched and strangled. _

_She pulls the knife out and drives it in again with so much force that he stumbles and falls, yelping as he hits the ground. _

_She can't stop herself._

_There's blood on her hands now. He's bleeding into her but she presses the knife in again. _

_Again. _

_Again. _

_Again. _

_He's quaking beneath her, his face sweaty and his eyes unfocused. _

_Again. _

_He goes still. _

/

She feels like everyone is watching her.

It's quiet, for once, and there's only one camera in here in comparison to the hundreds outside, still, there are eyes.

Some are sympathetic, some are judgmental. The eyes of the people at her table are nervous, scared even. None of the stares are as steely as the ones looking down at her, piercing into her from his bench.

His voice is booming as he speaks, lifting past her even, and touching that very back of the gallery.

He asks the question to which an answer has been weeks in the making and the room dies into a steady, unnerving silence.

Everyone wants to know the answer.

It's what they're waiting for.

She's not sure she's ready for it.

She _is_ sure she has no choice but to become ready for it.

The judge repeats his questions.

"In the case docket ending 3811, People v. Santana Lopez on the charge of voluntary manslaughter, how does the defendant plea?"

/

"_Self-defense,"_

_Quinn Fabray—Quinn fucking Fabray—looks up from the large book she's been buried in, casting her boss, Phillip Georgiou—one of the most successful defense attorneys in the country—a sideways glance. _

"_Look, I know you said it'd be too hard to prove but I really think that it'll be just as hard to disprove. It's something we should at very least consider," _

_Phil nods and Santana watches him carefully as he jots something down on his legal pad. _

_He's an older man, probably in his early 60s, with thinning white hair and a very round exterior. _

_He's jovial too, probably too jovial for someone in his line of work but Santana likes him a lot._

_She asked him once, very soon after meeting him, if he ever regretted choosing to defend criminals as a career, he said no and asked her if she regrets stabbing that man twelve times, she answered no and that was really the end of that. _

_He's been all paternal concern and well-timed jokes ever since. _

_She wonders sometimes, when she in lock-up with nothing else to wonder about, if that's why he has such a great success rate; if maybe he just charms the judge and jury into an acquittal. Then she sees him like this—pensive with his pen in hand and his notebook close—and she knows he really just works damn hard at what he does and because he's at a point in his career where he can be as selective as he chooses, she knows that he's working damn hard for her and that puts her at great ease with him. _

"_What about justifiable homicide?" Quinn asks, highlighting larges passages from the book. "She prevented harm to someone else,"_

_Phil stares at his notebook for a moment, worrying his lip between his teeth before shaking his head._

"_It'll seem like a God complex," he reasons. He turns to Santana, smiling brightly. "You don't have a God complex, do you, dear?" _

_Quinn snorts back laughter. _

"_Santana Lopez has a lot of complexes. I can honestly say that a God complex isn't one of them," _

_Santana rolls her eyes. _

_She's actually kind of happy that Quinn is here though; she doesn't always have to explain things when Quinn is here because Quinn just knows; she understands._

"_Ok, so we move back to procedural," Quinn insists, head right back in her book. "There has to be a mistake somewhere along the way," _

"_And if there is, it'll be good for a mistrial, not an acquittal. We have to think broader," _

"_Provocation?" _

"_Doesn't justify murder," _

"_Urban survival?" _

_Phil raises an eyebrow and Quinn shrugs. _

"_She did go all "Lima Heights Adjacent" on him," _

_Santana hides a smirk behind her forearm when Quinn catches her eye knowingly. _

"_Ok," Quinn highlights some more passages. "Abuse defense?" _

"_Since the abuse wasn't directly to her, it won't work, unless there's a history of abuse then—" _

_Quinn's head snaps up so quickly that even Phil appears startled. _

_Quinn looks at her. _

_Stares at her. _

_Fucking bores into her with her eyes. _

"_Santana?" _

_Santana shakes her head instantly. She knows what Quinn is insinuating. She knows what Quinn wants her to say and she won't do it. _

"_Santana," her voice is soft, lifting at the edges. She's treading on the surface of it, threating to break it. _

"_I don't want to talk about it, Quinn," _

"_Santana," It's Phil this time, treading curiously on the subject. "If there's something that could help your case, then please help me help you," _

"_San," _

_They're double teaming her; it isn't fair._

_Quinn's fingertips brush against her folded hands and when she glances up at hazel eyes, she somehow knows what Quinn is going to say before she says it. _

"_San, you're not helping her in here,"_

_Brittany. _

_She's not helping Brittany while she's locked up 20 hours per day in solitary confinement. _

_She won't be helping Brittany if she gets locked up 15-20 to life. _

_All she ever wanted to do was help Brittany. _

"_Fine," she agrees even though she shudders at just the thought of talking about it. She fully trembles at the thought of having to relive it. "Use it," _

_Quinn nods even though her eyes ask her if she's sure and she nods because she is sure; she'd relive thousands of her worst nightmares if it meant she could get out of here—if it meant she could wrap her arms around Brittany again and tell her that she'll be ok; they'll be ok. _

"_Her step-father," Quinn reveals. "There's a long standing history of abuse," _

_Phil looks at her and there's as much apology in his eyes as there is hope. _

"_We can work with the history," he nods, jotting down more notes. "It could work for an insanity defense. Temporary insanity even," _

_Santana pales. _

"_The success rate is low. It's damn near impossible if there isn't a previous diagnosis of mental illness, Phil. I think it's too risky," Quinn reasons. _

_Santana shakes her head. _

_This isn't the route she wants to go. _

_Any other direction and she'd follow; plea bargain even but not this. _

"_I'm not crazy," she insists. _

_Phil nods slowly, taking her in beneath the frame of his glasses. _

"_I'm not crazy, Phil," she repeats. _

"_We're not saying you are," he says. "Maybe we'll move towards an irresistible impulse; a skewed sense of right and wrong even," he murmurs. "But when it comes down to it, do you regret stabbing that man twelve times, Santana?" _

"_No," her answer is instant; she doesn't even have to think about it because he hurt Brittany—he threated to kill Brittany—and if she were there again, having been here now, she may just have staked that knife through his heart once more for affect. _

_He shrugs. _

"_Then I think we should at least consider insanity a viable defense," _

/

Everyone is watching her.

Some sympathetic, some judgmental, most just questioning.

Phil leans forward, catching her eye.

She nods, giving him permission.

"My client pleads not guilty, your honor," he speaks. "Not guilty by reason of temporary insanity,"

She's pretty sure she hears a collective gasp.

To be continued…

* * *

><p><strong>I dunno. Maybe? What do you guys think? <strong>

**I'm thinking of continuing it with the case—and of course, Brittany— with continued flashbacks to how she got here, including why she and Brittany were broken up. **

**But I dunno guys lol dunno. It's a whole lotta crazy so tell me what you think! **


	2. Print, Pictures & White Outlines

_The clock ticks away another minute._

_It's another minute of silence. _

_Another minute of inquisitive stares that Santana can't see through the barricade of glass although she knows they're there. _

_She can feel that they're there. _

_The clock ticks methodically. _

_Mocking her. _

_Another minute._

_Another minute of Brittany running through her mind screaming to take her instead because it's her fault. _

_It's not her fault. _

_Santana wants to scream it back. _

_She wants to scream it so loudly that Brittany will hear it from behind the thick walls of her apartment where Santana told her to stay. _

_She wants to scream it so powerfully that the words will dry tears that are without a doubt blurrily drowning out pretty blue irises. _

_She just wants to scream. _

_But her throat is dry and her head is pounding and she's pretty sure any sound she makes will just lure Detective Dickwad back in here where he'll continue to bang on tables and pretend to sympathize with her until he can add 'assaulting a police officer' to the list of charges he's already read to her. _

_Another minute. _

_The door creaks open and Santana fully expects it to be the balding detective playing sweet or spicy or whatever his flavor of the minute is this go round. _

_It's not Detective Dickwad. _

_Instead, Santana glances up and finds herself looking at the worried face of a girl—woman—she hasn't seen in at least six years. _

_Quinn Fabray. _

_Quinn fucking Fabray. _

_She always assumed Quinn would make it back to New York ever since their sophomore year in college when Quinn decided to transfer to Stanford and Santana mocked her endlessly because they were already living their dream at Columbia and it was just so Quinn of her to forfeit that dream to fulfill another. _

_Santana knew she'd be back though._

_Even after the phone calls and text messages and Skype chats died off midway through their junior year, she just knew Quinn would be back. _

_Even after one year of no contact stretched into two and then three and then four, she'd always look at old yearbooks or come across a high school memento in the back of her closet and entertain the idea of bumping into Quinn somewhere at the corner of Grand Street or Fifth Ave or hell, even Broadway. _

_Clearly anywhere but here. _

_Anywhere but in a police station where her wrists are still indented from the handcuffs that were snapped tightly into her skin less than an hour and a half ago. _

_It doesn't make any sense Quinn being here. _

_It doesn't make any sense why her cheeks are pale are her forehead creased in concern. _

_It doesn't—_

"_Santana," her voice is strained with burden but her eyes are startlingly clear with her own Quinn brand of comfort. _

"_Brittany called me," she explains slowly, eyeing Santana carefully like she doesn't know exactly what to make of her. "Santana, I work for __Phillip Georgiou. He's a great defense attorney and he's agreed to take your case. He'll be here in less than half an hour but until then, I'd like ask you a few questions, if that's ok with you," _

/

Sometimes Santana really hates that Quinn is working on her case.

It's only a minority of the time though because most of the time it's great because Quinn understands. She doesn't really understand Santana but she understands _Santana_and_Brittany_; she understands why "he was hurting Brittany," is the only defense Santana will ever need. She understands why Santana would stab the bastard a hundred times over if she had to.

Most of the time, she understands.

And then sometimes, like right now, she doesn't understand shit.

"Santana," Quinn repeats sternly, hazel eyes dark with determination. "Were you and Brittany still—?"

"No," Santana says it slowly, drawing the word out like the extra sound will reflect the truth in her statement. "I told you before, Quinn; _no_,"

"Santana," Quinn sighs, her fingertips massaging circles into her temple. "I need you to be honest here. The prosecution are gonna dig up whatever they can to make this look deliberate. If they find anything, _anything _at all, to make it look like you benefitted from this guy's death then there goes our case,"

"You think I don't know that, Quinn?"

Anger prickles at her, prodding until it bites through her vocal cords. She doesn't want to lash out—she knows Quinn's just being thorough—but for Christ's sake, Quinn can throw out "_our case_" until she's blue in the face but "our case" is her fucking _life_. The rest of her fucking life is on the line here riding on whether or not she has had sex with Britt after she started dating that fucking tool.

And the answer is no. 

Honest to God fucking no

"We haven't," she swallows hard, trying to keep up the anger even though sadness creeps into her voice. "I—," she hates how the memories seize her vocal cords; she hates how she can never stop the sadness from taking hold of her. "The night before her wedding I—"

Quinn's features soften, fingertips reaching for skin.

Her transition from lawyer to friend is swift, no less graceful than everything else Quinn does effortlessly.

"What happened, San?"

She let her go.

That's what happened.

/

"_Santana,"_

_Fingertips ghost across her jaw, landing gently as if even the lightest of pressure could break her. _

_It can't. _

_She's too broken already; still it feels like she's shattering all over. Like her ribcage has disintegrated and absorbed into her lungs and her heart, left without protection, is falling slowly, squeezing tightly as it plummets into her stomach. _

_It's not supposed to be like this. _

"_Honey," Thumbs swipe across her cheeks, caressing away salty tears as they land. She closes her eyes tightly trying to barricade the flow of them but they squeeze beneath clamped eyelids, wetting eyelashes and stinging into her skin. "San, why are you crying?" _

"_Sorry," she mumbles in apology, gripping pale wrists and pushing lightly even though Brittany won't budge. "I don't want to cry all over your dress," she tries to joke but her laugh is liquid. _

"_I don't care, San," Brittany murmurs, making the possibility highly plausible as she draws closer, fingertips skirting to her neck—pressing against the beating of her carotid artery—and chin resting softly atop her head. _

_Santana closes her eyes, unable to stop herself from moving into the familiar embrace. _

"_Tell me why you're crying," _

"_I— Britt," she pulls back, staring up into soft blue eyes which just seems to make hers water more._

_She just can't take it. _

"_You're beautiful," she gushes although what she really means to say is 'you're mine.'_

_Or supposed to be hers. _

_Or—she doesn't know. _

_It's just not right. _

_It's not supposed to be like this._

_Brittany's dress is the purest of whites, hugging slender hips snugly and fanning out into a flurry of intricate jeweled flowers at the hemline. It's strapless—Brittany always said she'd go strapless—baring strong high shoulders and the flat plane of her chest sectioned between the delicate rise of her clavicle and the delicate heaving of her cleavage that peaks above her lace, sequin encrusted bodice._

_It really is beautiful. _

_But Santana can't shake the feeling that she's not supposed to be seeing this. _

_At least not yet. _

_She's not supposed to be here. _

_She's supposed to be somewhere, in a similar room, in a dress not nearly as blindingly white and probably a bit too form fitting; she's supposed to be reciting her vows in her head and yelling at the far too many cousins she's picked to be her bridesmaids. _

_She's supposed to be marrying Britt. _

_But she's not. _

_She's not. _

_And it hurts so fucking much that she can barely breathe. _

"_I just love you so damn much Britt," _

_And that's the truth. _

_That's why she's crying. _

_That's why Brittany's palms are acting as nets to her waterfall of tears. _

_Brittany smiles softly, palms cool against Santana's wet cheeks. _

"_I love you to, San" she murmurs, leaning down to press her lips square against Santana's even though they're wet with tears and chapped with breathlessness at the same time._

_The kiss is not passionate—if it's even a kiss. _

_It's not romantic. _

_Hell, it isn't even moving. _

_But it's familiar. _

_It's Brittany's glossed lips bearing just enough pressure against hers that she feels it, that she draws every declaration of love and caring and support ever uttered between them right into her. _

_And then it's gone. _

"_I love you, Santana, more than I've ever loved anyone else in this world," she hums into her skin, echoing so many instances in their past that it makes Santana dizzy just trying to pinpoint the first time Brittany said it. _

_High school… _

_Brittany presses her lips against her again, this time against the top of Santana's head, her lips giving way to a soft smile that gets lost in dark hair. _

"_I love you," she repeats. "You know that, right?"_

_Santana almost wants to scream no, that she doesn't know that. If she did then they wouldn't be here right now. Brittany wouldn't be less than 24 hours away from marrying someone who isn't her. _

_The words won't burst forth from her lips though and even if they did, it would be a lie because she knows Brittany loves her; Brittany loves her more purely and fiercely than anyone has ever loved her and that's why she has to let her go. _

"_Britt," there's just something she has to know; one simple thing and she'll let go. _

"_Are you happy, Britt-Britt?" _

_Brittany's head falls against her shoulder, cheek burrowing into the curve of her neck where Brittany just seems to belong. _

_It feels like a lifetime stretching between them before she feels the subtle nod of Brittany's head. _

_It's enough. _

/

"I want to see her, Quinn,"

Quinn's head snaps up, hazel eyes burrowing into her.

She shakes her head slowly.

"It'll hurt our case, San. There's no doubt the prosecution will find out if she comes here to visit you and they'll pick it apart. It's just not possible. Phil would never agree to it,"

"Quinn, I _need_ to see her,"

/

**A/N: Hope you liked this chapter guys! **

**Thanks for all the reviews on the last chapter, especially Dances-With-Bears who I will most likely (definitely) be hitting up for some legal expertise because I'm really going blind here lol **

**Review please! **

**Also, you can hit me up on my Tumblr: downlikeyourinternet (dot) tumblr (dot) com**


	3. Cold & Confined

"Santana…"

Santana hates it when Quinn does this—when she sits here and plays coy with her.

It's bad enough that she spends eighty percent of her time locked in a jail cell on her own; it's bad enough that her chest feels like it's inflating every single time she's told she has a visitor; it's bad enough that even when it turns out to be just Quinn and Phil, her chest never quite deflates, her hope won't just pop and drip through the spaces between her ribs until she just drowns in it.

It's bad enough that she wishes she could just drown in it.

Drown in something—_anything_ but Quinn's eyes and the way sadness and defeat swim in them, blazing through the foray of both dark and light hues, threatening to consume Santana whole.

This is gonna be the day she tells her that it's over, that they have no chance.

This is gonna be the day. Santana's sure of it.

"Where's my lawyer?"

If she has to hear it, she wants to hear it from Phil.

She doesn't need Quinn to let her down "easy." She doesn't need the sad, sympathetic eyes or the fleeting touches.

She needs the details, as harsh as they may be; she needs to know if a plea bargain is worth it, if she'll ever be let out, if she'll ever see Brittany again... if she can protect her from in here.

"Santana," Quinn says her name softly and Santana brushes away Quinn's fingers as they reach out to touch her or console her or whatever it is Quinn's trying to do. "This is a personal visit,"

Santana doesn't like the sound of that, not in conjunction with the way Quinn keeps worrying her bottom lip between her teeth and certainly not with the way her hands keep fidgeting, reaching out to touch one second and fiddling in her lap the very next.

She steels herself, takes her a breath in slowly and lets it out through her nose.

"Oh?"

Quinn nods, fingertips drumming against the tabletop.

"Brittany came to see me,"

Santana is pretty sure she pales; she can feel the blood rush out of her.

She feels lightheaded—woozy.

"And what, Quinn?" her voice sounds hollow, even to her own ears. Maybe the hope will strangle her instead of drowning. "Are you rubbing it in my face?"

"No, I—" Quinn fiddles with something in her lap. Paper, it sounds like paper. "She—she came to show me this,"

Santana takes the sheet of crumpled paper that Quinn offers her.

It's a letter. Addressed to Brittany.

She reads over it once.

Twice.

Three times.

It's full of legal jargon that makes her head throb and her eyes blur.

Each time, only a few words jump out at her.

**Dear Mrs. Brittany S. Vos**,

_His name_. It's wrong; it doesn't sound right.

**Testify against the defendant, Santana Lopez**.

**Refusal will result in being held in contempt of court**.

"Quinn, what is this?"

"Look," Quinn sighs. She sounds resigned, defeated, so unlike Quinn Fabray. "We said we would try our best to keep her out of this. I tried, San, I _really_ did but she's been subpoenaed by the prosecution to testify,"

"No," _No, no, no, no, no; she can't. _"Brittany would never—you know how she gets when she has to talk in front of people,"

/

"_Britt?"_

_The restroom is eerily quiet, so quiet that Santana would even say it were empty if she didn't know Brittany so well. _

"_Britt?" she raps her knuckles against the door of middle stall, "Brittany?"_

_Nothing. _

_Santana sighs. _

"_Britt-Britt, I know you're in there," she presses her ear against the cool wood, listening to the sound of clear staggered breaths. "Open the door," _

_Nothing. _

"_Britt?" _

"_I can't do it," Brittany's voice is soft— a barely there whisper; it makes Santana feel like her chest is shattering. _

"_You can't do what, Britt?" _

"_This. I thought I could; I thought I could be the unicorn. I thought I could help you—us, I thought I could help us but now I'm gonna let everyone down. I'm gonna let you down. I can dance and I can sing but I can't talk to all those people! San, they'll think I'm stupid. They'll think I'm stupid and I'll never win," _

_Santana leans heavily against the wooden door, her own breath made shoddy by Brittany's confession. _

_She's pretty sure something in her chest really does shatter this time. _

"_Brittany," She sighs, glancing under the stall door where Brittany has finally let her feet hang free. "Britt, if you don't open the door, I'm coming under," _

_The lock clicks softly but Brittany makes no further move to open the door. _

_Santana pushes it open slowly, finding Brittany sitting on the toiler lid, her palms pressed to her cheeks. If the situation were different, Santana's sure she would find it adorable, but Brittany's eyes are drooping like she's trying so hard not to let tears escape. _

"_Brittany," she kneels in front of her, ignoring the gritty bathroom tile and how coach will murder her if she gets her uniform dirty. "They're not gonna think you're stupid,"_

_Brittany's sigh breaks into a heartbreaking sob. _

"_You're right because they already do," _

"_I told you before! This, your campaign, you, you're a genius, Brittany, and the people who don't realize that are the stupid ones," she pats Brittany's knee softly, looking into sad blue eyes. "Besides, you talk in front of loads of people all the time. What about Fondue for Two?"_

"_That's different," Brittany shrugs. "And you delete all the bad comments before I can read them,"_

"_I do not,"_

_Brittany shoots her a look that says she certainly doesn't believe her. _

"_It was once," Santana concedes. "And the comment was creepy. I'm pretty sure it was by some fifty year old creeper who lives in his mom's attic or something, but he's not important anyway. And you know what? None of those people out there who call you stupid are important either. What's important is that you don't back down; you tell them what you believe in, you stand your ground and Lady Lips will crap his tight, studded, flared pants when he realizes what an amazing campaign her dropped and everyone else will realize how smart you really are. And then you'll win by a freakin' landslide and I'll be by your side, smirking the whole damn time because I knew you were a genius all along and it took everybody else forever to figure it out," _

_There it is. That tiny hint of a smile playing on Brittany's lips. _

"_You really think I'll win?" Her voice is timid but tinted with hope. _

"_No doubt in my mind," Santana answers honestly, "Now, come on," she tugs at one of Brittany's hands. "Let's steal Coach's megaphone! We can even draw a unicorn or something on it before you storm these halls, dazzling people with your brilliant ideas until they have no choice but to vote for you,"_

"_Santana?" _

_She pulls Brittany up, dusting off her own uniform once she's off her knees. _

"_Yeah, Britt?" _

_If anything is dazzling, it's the way Brittany smiles at her, bright and happy, like nothing else matters, just her. _

_Just them. _

"_Thanks," _

_She hugs her so tightly it's like they're glued together—like it's mending, piece by piece, the shards of her shattered chest. _

/

"I know she's not gonna like it, Santana; I want them to leave her out of it as much as you do but this is a court order. I've explained to her what will happen if she refuses; I've explained to her that they will put her in jail. I've even explained to her that her testimony may actually help us, that even if they try to use her against us, we can just as easily use her against them, but she's terrified, Santana. She doesn't want to say anything that will hurt your case. She'd rather refuse to testify than risk hurting your case,"

"And you're gonna let me see her," It snaps into place so quickly in her mind that she can practically hear the resolute thud of clinking coils—it's why Phil's not here, it's why Quinn's so nervous. "You want me to change her mind,"

Quinn nods slowly.

"We're gonna have to do this as discreetly as possible. We can't let Phil know and God, if the media catch ahold of this, they will have a field day. It's risky,"

"But you're gonna let me see her?"

It's all she cares about, seeing for herself (knowing for herself) that Brittany is safe; she'll worry about all that other stuff later.

"I'm gonna let you see her,"

/

"Lopez," the metal of her cell clunks as the door rattles and is slid open; she shields her eyes against the intrusive light but the body of a burly guard blocks it out anyway. "Lopez," his voice is gruff, like his vocal cords are coated in something rough, like wood. "Lopez, you have a visitor,"

When she's told she has a visitor, her chest fills with hope each and every time.

This time, her heart rate quickens so much she's almost positive that this will be the time it bursts.

* * *

><p><strong>TBC… <strong>

**Wow, what an awful way to end this chapter, right? **

**Review anyway? Please **


	4. Burning Rope

Santana has run through so many scenarios in her head, working herself into hysterics thinking about all the things that could go wrong and all the things that could be going wrong already while she's been trapped in here. She's imagined herself having to face both a Brittany who is gaunt and sick from worry and a Brittany finally unafraid and untroubled. She has thought about how she can navigate comfort from behind a protective glass window, planning how she can wipe away tears with her words instead of her thumbs. She's rehearsed words, repeated them in her head and let them slip from her lips and echo back to her against the walls of her cell. She's framed reassurances that aren't lies, explanations that aren't entirely truths; she's thought of anything—absolutely anything— to make the cold plastic of the handset feel less jarring.

Honestly, she just wants to see her.

She wants to see her smile and capture the light of it so she can imagine it while she's entombed in her cell at night staring up at a dull gray ceiling, lighting up the world.

She wants to let her know that none of this is her fault, that she'd do it again in a heartbeat if she had to, that she'd have done it earlier if she had known.

She has needed to see her from the moment she realized she couldn't; she almost resigned herself to the fact that wouldn't, so when Quinn told that she could, she started planning almost instantly; she has so much to say in this thirty minutes that she has it planned by the second. She's been so anxious for this moment to come that she hadn't even for a second considered that maybe her visitor isn't Brittany.

And it's not.

When she's lead to the small visiting booth and sat—sectioned by only hard glass and poorly constructed wood—across from a small brunette blast from her past, it's sheer shock that keeps her rooted to her seat. She doesn't have words to articulate her surprise and even if she did, she's so shocked, she doesn't even think to reach for the handset.

It's the small, timid smile she receives that springs her into action and even with the headset pressed to her ear, no words seem to find their way to her lips.

"I hope you don't mind me visiting you, Santana. I heard you were in New York and Quinn said you wouldn't mind if I stopped by so—"

Well, apparently some people don't change.

"You can cut to the chase, Rachel. I mean, it's not the stripper pole that a certain someone predicted, but I'm in jail; you're not visiting me at my house,"

Rachel smiles, but it's tightlipped. There's something sad lurking behind dark eyes, something almost akin to pity. Santana is planning all the ways she can kill Quinn for this already.

"You know I didn't mean that, Santana," There's the lilt of genuine sincerity in her tone that even now—even though she hasn't seen Rachel Berry since high school graduation—makes her feel kind of bad for not trying harder with Rachel back then. She thinks that if she had tried back then, then even now, they'd probably still be friends. She hates that kind of thinking though; she's already got enough what ifs on her plate to last a lifetime and it's really beginning to look like she'll have a lifetime with nothing to do but ponder them so she's trying to live in her now and her right now is Rachel Berry, the first real visitor she's had since she's been trapped in here. Rachel Berry who is offering her a smile and no judgment and isn't that the most Santana can ask for when it seems the whole world is painting her with the hard, harsh angles of a monster?

"So tell me then, what have I missed? Broadway debut? Tony award? Finally marry Finnocence?"

Rachel gives a short honest chuckle, shaking her head softly.

"No, none of that. I'm sure you'll be out of here in time to see it though,"

It's Santana's smile that's tightlipped this time because as much as she wants to believe it, the longer this trial drags by, the more she begins to believe that she's already living her forever.

"Well, maybe not the last one," Rachel adds quickly.

"Oh?"

Rachel shrugs, which is probably the most nonchalant Santana has ever seen her about anything let alone about anything that has to do with Finn.

"Finn and I broke up years ago," she admits. "You can say 'I told you so' if you want,"

Honestly, Santana doesn't want to.

If anything, she's sure Quinn's already beat that dead horse so she just shrugs instead.

"If I know anything, it's that sometimes things don't work out the way you want them to, you know?" she doesn't mean for it to sound so melancholy but the sadness taints her tongue, choking the conversation from its very roots.

Rachel pinches her lips into the saddest smile Santana has ever seen. Santana would probably roll her eyes at it if she wasn't the person who warranted it.

"There are a lot of people out there supporting you, Santana," Rachel says softly, soft enough that Santana has to press the handset closer to her ear to hear the words clearly. "I certainly don't condone violence, Santana, but you didn't get here because of whimsy or some irrational urge for destruction; you're here because you love someone so deeply that you were willing to trade your life, a promising one at that, for her protection. Most people only wish they could be so brave,"

"I doubt anyone considers what I did brave,"

Rachel flashes her one of her bright, made-to-light-up-stages-at-the-end-of-encore-performances kind of smiles.

"I wouldn't consider it anything but," she murmurs. "You know your life could be a Broadway bound musical," she jokes, "I'd write it myself. Think of it, Chicago the sequel. It would be the only sequel better than the original. A story of devotion, love, true friendship and courage,"

Santana's own laughter startles her as it bubbles from her throat. She feels like she hasn't laughed in years, yet here she is, laughing with Rachel Berry of all people.

"Hey, Berry," She had honestly not know what to expect when she realized that it was Rachel who had come to see her, but now, she's actually kind of glad. It's a little bit pathetic, but she actually feels the lightest she has in a while.

"Lopez," The sound of the guard cuts into her sudden calm. "You have one minute left,"

She nods her acknowledgement, turning back to Rachel who is smiling softly at her.

"Yes Santana?"

"Thanks for coming to see me,"

"You're welcome,"

"Berry?" She calls again before Rachel can put down the receiver. Her high school self would probably have some choice words for her if she saw her now, clinging onto a modicum of a friendship with Rachel Berry of all people.

"Will you come back and sing it to me?" she asks, "When you write the score for you future Tony award winning musical?"

Rachel grins so brightly it's almost blinding.

"Of course,"

"And Berry?"

"Yes?"

"Don't you dare think about playing me on Broadway,"

"I wouldn't dare, Santana" Rachel laughs, "I wouldn't dare,"

/

"Well, aren't you popular today, Lopez,"

She's halfway back to her cell when Kennedy, the only prison guard she can on a good day maybe tolerate, spins her right back around.

"What?" she asks, confused.

"Looks like you have another visitor,"

* * *

><p><strong>So, sorry the updates on this are taking so long! College and work are crazy but I think, don't quote me, that updates might be coming much quicker soon! Also, please review! Pretty please =) <strong>


	5. Pieces of a Heart

She's thin; it's the first thing Santana notices—her greatest fear of this visit taunting her in the hollow dips of Brittany's collarbone and the sharp gauntness of her usually delicate features.

"I need you not to worry about me, okay?" she says as soon as she picks up the handset. There are so many things she wants to say—things she's rehearsed and things she hasn't; things she's said before and things she couldn't dream of saying—but the finality of this single visit looms heavy over her words. She only has half an hour—thirty desperately ticking minutes to communicate a lifetime between them.

She supposes, if she were only allowed to say one thing to Brittany for the rest of her life, it'd be that—a desperate demand for her not to worry about her. The love between them is so embedded in both of them that it really doesn't even need to be said to be felt, and the regret—not for what Santana's done, but for letting it happen, for not holding on, for not following Brittany and fighting for her the way she should have—has hung between them, dark and suffocating, ever since Brittany came back from Europe with the engagement ring and that quiet, defeated smile.

Santana can live knowing that she hadn't said those things, because she knows that Brittany knows them, but what she can't live with is this—is Brittany worrying herself to sickness somewhere out there while she's trapped in here with comforting words she can't even offer.

It was probably her downfall the very first time, this notion that Brittany could be perfectly happy without her. She was petulant back then, saddened and thus angered by her unyielding love for this girl who was just as happy spreading her love elsewhere, so she withdrew into herself then, until that same love hauled her back out.

The second time though, she thrived on it, letting the sadness and the anger of lost love drive her from bed to bed, convinced that if Brittany could find happiness elsewhere, then there was really nothing she could do but accept it and find her happiness elsewhere too.

This time it's different; it's not sad or angry, but it's hopeful. The likelihood that she'll be in here for the rest of her life is high and the only way she can make peace with that is if she's certain that Brittany can find her happiness—not the temporary kind with boys who are nice enough until suddenly they're not and definitely not the dangerous kind with men who are almost too nice to mask the ominous threat of when they're not—because that's why she's here. She's in here so Brittany can be happy—she'd put a kitchen knife through a hundred more men if that were the final result. The very last thing she needs is to be trapped in here, desperate for Brittany's happiness, while Brittany is out there miserable, because of her. It's a type of morbid irony that she just can't take.

"I need you not to worry about me, Britt; no matter what happens, okay?" she repeats, more forceful.

"I can't help it, San," Brittany's voice is shaky, liquid, like she's trying not to cry even though her eyes are already rimmed red like she hasn't stopped crying. "I'm so sorry. This is all my—"

"It's not," Santana interrupts her, adamant but gentle, "It's not your fault,"

"But it is! I shouldn't have dragged you into this. I should have just given you Lord Tubbington when I gave you Charity and I should have ran or—" the tears catch in the corners of her eyes, and the emotion in her throat. Santana's instinct is to reach out, but she's very aware of the glass between them so she clutches the wooden edge of the table before her instead. "Or I should have—" the words come out choked amidst her failing effort to fight her tears. "I should have just let him kill me,"

"Brittany—"

"No, Santana. I've ruined your life," The tears come heavy, streaming down her face like a summer downpour. "I've ruined your life and I—"

"No, Britt-Britt," she touches the glass with her fingertips, wishing she could touch skin or wipe away the residue of tears. "He did this,"

Brittany shakes her head, adamant to take the weight of this blame.

Santana won't let her.

"No, listen to me," she demands, firm, her palm now resting full against the cold glass. "He did this. He ruined my life the moment he ruined yours. I just—I was so blind not to suspect something. I mean, I think I did suspect something after Charity, but I just didn't want to go there, you know? I couldn't stand the thought of him hurting you and there he was the whole time hurting you. I just wish—I wish you came to me sooner,"

"I was so scared," Brittany admits. "I was just so scared all the time. I'd call the police and they'd come and he'd just charm them into thinking we just had a little argument; that I was overacting. No one believed me,"

"I would have," Santana insists. "I would have believed you,"

"I know, but he knew that too, San. He _knew_," Brittany stresses, "He said that if I even thought about running, he'd go after you and Charity first," The tremble in Brittany's voice makes Santana's skin tingle with the urge to just wrap her in her arms and keep her there, _safe_. "And he kept calling you stupid," Santana hates the way Brittany's eyes darken, her gaze fixed like she's trapped in this horrible memory and Santana doesn't know where to begin to even try to pull her out of it. "He said you were more stupid than I am, that you were stupid to love me, to keep loving me, even though I didn't love you back, but I did San, I always did, I do love you. More than anything,"

"I know," Santana assures her because she knows that Brittany needs assurance more than reciprocation right now. "I know, Britt," she repeats, tapping her fingers against the glass where Brittany has unconsciously placed her hand as well. If she presses hard enough, Santana can almost swear that she can feel the heat of Brittany's touch.

"And that night when I came to you,"

Santana doesn't need further explanation. She knows which night—the night of the murder. The most horrifying part of that night—not even the killing, or the blood or any of the raised voices and poisonous words that led up to that— still haunts her sleep with flashes of bruised skin and dried blood.

/

_The chime of her doorbell is startling, enough to frighten her into dropping her coffee mug where it then smashes into small shards against her kitchen floor. _

_She groans in frustration, unsure whether to get the broom first or the door. _

_She opts for the broom because Charity has already perked up from where she's claimed a spot next to the coffee maker on her kitchen counter; that stupid cat has always had a penchant for danger and Santana so doesn't want to spend the rest of her night in the animal hospital because the cat has gone and got glass splinters in her tail or something. _

_Besides, she isn't expecting anyone and maybe whoever it is—probably someone trying to sell her something or her landlord complaining about how much she uses the heat—will go away anyway._

_No such luck. _

_The door bell rings again. And again. And again; incessant, impatient chimes ringing out against her apartment walls. _

"_Jesus Christ! I'm coming!" she hisses loudly, abandoning her quest for the broom and just catching the cat in her arms instead so she can't even thinking about playing lick-the-dangerous-broken-glass while Santana's back is turned. _

_The bell hasn't stopped chiming, even as she makes her way to the door, so when she finally gets there, she isn't able to keep her annoyance in check enough to open the door like a normal person. Instead, she flings it open and regrets it almost instantly when she finds Brittany standing at her doorstep, hiccupping helpless, tear strained breaths. _

"_Britt?" _

_Even the cat seems to notice something is seriously wrong because she stops wiggling and hops from Santana's arms to wrap herself around Brittany's leg. _

_Brittany doesn't even seem to notice. _

"_Brittany, what's wrong?" she asks, panicked, even as she wraps Brittany up in her arms, hugging her close. _

_Brittany makes a sound that sounds pained and Santana goes to pull back but Brittany doesn't let go, she only pulls Santana in tighter, crying soundlessly on her shoulder. _

_Santana lets her; she lets her cry for long, drawn out minutes, slowly rubbing comforting circles into the smalls of her back. The tears make no sign of stopping though and Santana knows they can't stand on her doorstep for the rest of her night so she pulls back just a little, not enough to break the embrace that Brittany is clinging so desperately to, but enough to talk to Brittany and not her neck. _

"_Let's go inside, okay Britt?" she suggests. "We'll go inside and I'll make you some tea and you can get cleaned up, then we can talk about what happened, okay?" _

_Brittany gives a small nod, but she doesn't move from where she's buried herself in Santana's neck, so Santana manages to awkwardly shuffle them, fused, into her living room, where she reaches blinding for the light switch to relieve them of the lonely darkness she spends most of her nights shrouded in. _

_It's when the light strikes soft against the visible side of Brittany's face that Santana sees it. _

"_Britt?" she gasps, pulling back to gently cup Brittany's jaw where the skin is raised, swollen and dark, like she's been rammed into something hard, repetitively. She takes another step back and sees where her lip is split, blood still trickling in a slow stream down her chin."Brittany?" she takes her hands in hers and it seems the further she steps back, the more damage she sees, because there's a ring of fading dark blotches around her neck too like she's been choked. "Britt, who did this to you?" _

_She doesn't even wait for an answer because what was once an eerie tingling blooms into a full-blow, gut-wrenching understanding. _

"_How long?" she asks, but Brittany doesn't answer; she only sobs harder, pulling Santana in closer. "I'm gonna get the phone; we're gonna call the police, okay?" _

_Brittany shakes her head adamantly against her shoulder. _

"_Why not, Britt?"_

"_He's gone out," It's the first coherent thing Brittany has said, but it's still hiccupped, wrapped in desperate pants for breath. "He's gone with his friends. They'll say he was with them all night. I snuck out. I ran, San; I took his car. When her notices it's gone—" her words die off into another desperate sob. _

"_It's okay, Britt, you're safe here,"_

"_San, Lord Tubbington! I so scared and he's just so heavy. It hurt; it just hurt so bad—I couldn't carry him. But when Greg notices I'm gone, he'll get angry, he'll—"_

"_No," Santana stops her. "You said he's out with his friends, right?"_

_Brittany nods. _

"_Look, I'll take your keys; I'll go and I'll get him and get you some clothes, okay? And you'll stay here and tomorrow, we're gonna go to the police station and force them to see what he's done, alright? He's not gonna get away with his,"_

_Brittany nods, but it's heartbreakingly unsure. _

"_I'm gonna get the first aid kit and clean you up first, is that okay?" she asks gently. "Will you let me do that?" _

_Brittany gives her another timid nod and Santana can't help but pull her into another, albeit gentler, hug. _

"_You're safe here, Britt," she murmurs into blonde hair, her voice soft amidst choked sobs. "I promise I'll keep you safe," _

/

"That night when I came to you—I never meant to put you in any danger," Brittany sobs, her tears getting the best of her. "I don't even know what I was thinking. I just had nowhere else to go. There was no one else who cared and—and I just keep thinking, maybe if I hadn't been so stupid; maybe if I had just sucked it up and taken Lord Tubbington with me then I could have found when of those places for homeless people or a bus out of town—"

"And I would have found out and killed him anyway," Santana interrupts. She can tell it startles Brittany, her bluntness; it's the first time she's told Brittany so bluntly what she's done; even after she did it, she spoke with such vagueness that if it wasn't for the blood she was caked in, then what she had done would have still been unclear. There's no reason for sugarcoating it anymore; she killed him, she's glad she killed him and she wants Brittany to be glad about it too. " Guys like him don't stop until somebody's in a body bag, Brittany. You could have run as far as your feet could take you, taken buses across the state, you could have even become a new person and there was still no way you would have ever felt safe again if he were out there somewhere. Now he's not and it's okay to be glad about that,"

"Now when you're in here,"

"_Especially_ because I'm in here," Santana insists. "I would do it again and end up in here every single time if I knew it's what it took to keep you safe. I don't regret it,"

Brittany doesn't seem convinced.

"God, I'm so stupid, San. If I had just—"

"If you had nothing. I did this; it was my choice! You did the smartest thing ever by calling Quinn. She's found her forte with this legal stuff and Phil, the man she works for, he's nice and so smart. I might even get out of here. You just have to listen to what Quinn says, okay Brittany? Whatever she asks, just trust her, okay?"

"Alright, Santana, but you too, you know. You gotta listen to her as well,"

"Lopez, one minute!"

She's not ready; she wants more time—she wants the lifetime she always think she'd get—but she knows she doesn't have that option.

"I will, Brittany, I promise. I'll do whatever it takes,"

Brittany nods, satisfied.

"I love you, Santana, more than I've ever loved anyone,"

Santana smiles even though tears prickle at the corner of her eyes. The realization that she really won't see Brittany again until the end of the trial or during the trial when she's on the stand, hits her hard. She's starting to wonder if seeing her at all was really a good idea, but she knows she'd never not want to see her.

"Don't make cry okay, Britt? I've got some street cred to keep up in here. I'm putting Lima Heights Adjacent on the map,"

"That's not funny, San," Brittany admonishes, even though she flashes the most genuine smile Santana has seen since she sat in this seat.

It's that kind of smile that makes this worth it.

"Lopez, times up!"

"I love you, Britt. Don't forget it," she murmurs, tapping her fingers against the glass where Brittany's fingers are resting.

Brittany smiles, curling her fingers like she can feel the phantom touch.

"I love you too, San,"

And it's those words that ping-pong off of her brain at night and drag her through her days until her next visit with Phil and Quinn.

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